Notes from the Seaside

I walked a half-mile of wet sand this evening.

Stepping two bare feet in salted, sighing recessions,

I crossed a chorus,

grace, upon grace,

upon grace.

The seaside runs white-laced and popping, 

sizzles, tickles my ankles, sucks at my toes, 

impresses the full-roaring strength of mighty miles of ocean 

soft as a husband upon land-sore bones.

Waves tease the earth out from below my weight

until I laugh,

unsteadied, 

arms cast out like a child catching her balance.

I am vain enough to measure my own feet 

against the prints others have left.

It is because they are ugly and too big,

that they leave no mark at all upon the sand. 

I have learned to place them lightly, at least.

In the secrecy of evening,

I press my sole into forms left by the beautiful ones

like a servant trying on crowns.

I feel the cool, deep heel caves left by the confident,

and I wonder what it is like

to pass the earth with such surety.

Here is a neat, even row of toes. 

They dig each step into earth

as if they might cling to it.

And see there! Such pretty, high arches. 

A dancer, perhaps?

Someone holds those feet in his lap at night.

He touches them and is proud of them.

He marvels at their delicacy.

It takes courage to align my foot 

against the expanse left by a workshoe.

Mine is smaller by two inches.

I am less than I have thought,

I breathe.

“Love, upon love, 

such vast deep love.”

The seaside sighs,

as if it meant love for me;

and so I walk lightly,

leaving no trace,

afraid of breaking the spell.

Pelicans, seven in a line, 

fly bellies nearly touching water top,

rise like notes on a page.

Black-legged birds with yellow socks 

run silly from waves,

making a spectacle of themselves.

A lost feather rolls in the recession,

a third of a cigarette,

broken brown shells and blue ones turning,

one perfect white half shell,

serene, 

rim-down waiting.

Against the rain-pocked sand,

each wave yawns higher,

makes a mirror,

casts the blushing sky back to the heavens.